Human
by ceruleanblues
Summary: AU. "That place; it doesn't happen. Not for us."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Alright, so this is an escape 4-parter, which means that the theme revolves around wanting to just run away from the world, so some bits require a bit of imagination and a leap out of reality. It's also a buffer fic that tends to happen between writing chapters. This is where I venture to when times are tough or when I just need to be somewhere else. It's still ongoing in my head, it's a bit dark, a bit angsty, and not very pretty, but I hope it gets the message across.

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Human**

**Part 1**

She found him standing at her doorstep, sullenly staring at the ground and refusing to meet her eyes, and her aching heart constricted painfully in her chest.

**I can hold my breath  
****I can bite my tongue**

His shaggy dirty-blonde hair fell over limply, matted and tainted with patches of dried evidence and shielding half of the morbid artwork on his face. Her lingering gaze trailed lower, taking inventory of the remaining damages that were no doubt nicely concealed beneath the thick layer of his signature leather jacket, before finally landing on the tightly clenched fists by his sides. They were battered and bruised in a myriad colors of purple and crimson, and with a ragged exhale of her breath, she decided that they'd seen better days.

"Is he home?"

His voice was gruff and deep, scratchy with a slight Southern twang—thankfully the only thing he ever picked up from the fucked-up bastard he called 'dad'—laced in the slur of his words, and she had to bite on her lower lip when a delicious shiver ran down her spine. Damn, if it wasn't the sexiest thing in the entire world to hear Sam Evans speak.

"No," she whispered.

He slowly lifted his head, and it took everything in her power not to flinch. A trail of blood coated the side of his otherwise handsome features, trickling from a deep cut just beneath his brow. She noticed that he'd at least managed to save his nose this time round; his jaw, though, wasn't so lucky.

"Quinn…"

Wordlessly, she tugged on his wrist. Mindful to be gentle, she pulled him into her tiny excuse of an apartment before scanning the empty hallway for suspicious lurkers and quietly shutting the door.

* * *

"Fuck, Q," he winced, batting her hand away. "Stop it, already."

"Oh, suck it, you big baby," she playfully chastised, a devilish smirk on her lips as she held the alcohol-soaked cotton wool up for his inspection. "It's just a bit of antiseptic."

Sam rolled his striking green eyes and shook his head before taking a long drag of his cigarette. "Don't need it," he grumbled, turning away from her to stare out at the view of the cityscape and effectively shutting her out.

He'd had enough.

She sighed and resigned to abandoning her task, knowing that there was no reasoning with him when he was being a stubborn ass-hat. Prying would only irritate him further, so she allowed him that reprieve at least.

Just for tonight.

Side by side, they sat on the grated steps of the fire escape. The night was still—albeit too still for her liking—though somewhere in the distance, she could hear the all-too-familiar blaring of a police siren. Ten floors above outside her bedroom, they took it all in with misplaced serenity; just the both of them against the world—two damaged, imperfect teenagers—waiting for a way out.

"You can't keep doing this, Sam."

There was a hint of a smirk ghosting on his swollen lips. "What else is there, then?"

She plucked the fag from between his fingers and inhaled the hot burn. It swirled in her mouth, the nicotine hitting her just enough to calm her nerves.

"This place, it's toxic," she murmured. "We can't keep staying here. We need to leave, to go somewhere; anywhere, far away from here."

"Quinn—"

"I could've lost you today."

"You could lose me any day."

It was terrifying.

"There's got to be more than this."

The gentle breeze picked up speed as it blew tendrils of her hair in mild chaos; the chill in the air summoned goose bumps on her skin. Thin wisps of smoke danced in what little space there was between them, and instinctively, she leaned her head against his bare shoulder. He smelled of sweat, and Marlboro, and blood combined into a heady musk.

"We can't."

She faced him, then. "Why not?"

"That place; it doesn't happen. Not for us."

* * *

Still, she dared to dream; to venture on, even if it was only in the throes of passion.

He was buried deep inside of her, sheathed to the hilt as she gasped and clung onto him for dear life. They stilled for a moment, breathing each other in, and in his arms—in those tender seconds—she could almost believe that simplicity existed in her world.

She felt his plump lips ghost against the column of her neck and map a trail up to the shell of her ear, and inevitably, she failed to suppress a whimper from escaping her throat when he all but captured it between his teeth in a playful nibble.

"Sam—I can't—you—"

God forbid, how he could always reduce her to an incoherent mess, but damn if she didn't find a semblance of thrill shooting in her veins every time he chuckled in triumph.

"I'm sorry," he husked thickly, the tip of his nose tickling just the right spot. "Would you repeat that for me?"

Quinn was very much aware—however hazy she was—that he was baiting her, as he always did. He thrived on being in control; being the one on top, whichever way it was achieved, and just for tonight—despite it being one of the many—she decided that it wasn't a game she wanted to play.

Her fingernails dug into his back and left angry welts of crescent-shaped imprints in his pale flesh, adding to the multiple hues that were already there, and presenting him with an answer as she suggestively thrust her hips forward. He groaned, the sound vibrating in his chest, his grip tightening almost painfully into her flesh.

"Does it need saying?"

He growled, eyes flashing, pure carnal desire reflecting in his fully blown pupils, and a surge of molten liquid seared south to the apex of her thighs. She could see it then—just within reach of her fingertips—that magical place that belonged to them.

Some place distant; unreachable.

Somewhere only they knew.

Some place just for them.

"Just me and you."

* * *

They sat in silence again; with the sheets thrown over their satiated bodies and a smoke passed between them, simply basking in the afterglow and staring at the blank wall. Quinn took another draw from the cigarette before absent-mindedly handing it over to her bedfellow. She watched the white wisps dispel from between her lips, almost entranced by its beauty.

In that moment, she allowed herself the reprieve to clutch onto the last fragments of fantasy. It was so easy to get lost again—just the two of them—cocooned in a pretty little world of beautiful, endless skies and a road that would never end.

"What time is it?"

Just like that, it disappeared.

She turned to him, smirking, hoping it would mask her true emotions. "Time to leave before my dad gets back."

He scoffed, and then theatrically rolled his eyes. "You're such a fucking party pooper, Q."

"Well, I do my best," she replied cheekily.

"That you do," he agreed, closing the distance between them to kiss her, long and languid as he took the time to savor her mouth.

"Okay, you really need to go," she told him after regretfully pulling away, though she kept her palms splayed on his chest. Her voice took on a serious tone. "He'll kick your ass and you know it."

Sighing petulantly, he threw the covers off him and swung his legs over.

"You're still naked," she pointed out, arching an eyebrow.

He glanced at her from over his shoulder. "Look who's talking."

"I actually have underwear on."

"Yeah, right," he snorted. Bending down, he began rummaging the floor for his clothes. "Where the fuck are my boxers?"

From the bed, Quinn snickered.

"I'm wearing them."

* * *

**I can stay awake for days  
****If that's what you want  
****Be your number one**

Her dad was sprawled out on the couch, snoring like an industrial buzz saw and clearly had been drunk out of his ass when he arrived stumbling in the dark; not that she was remotely surprised. She had heard him—knew the routine to the second—and had wondered if she ought to check up on her only parental unit, but figured it would end up all the same, anyway.

Padding into the kitchenette, she pulled a mug out of the cupboard and flipped the switch on the coffee maker. As it started up, she leaned against the counter and watched woefully as Russell Fabray slept off his hangover, wishing things had been different for him. After the passing of her mom, he hadn't been the same person—simply a hollow shell of the man he used to be—and part of her would always mourn for his loss, but his wife wouldn't have wanted that for him.

The loud gurgling jolted her back, and after pouring the steaming beverage for herself, Quinn headed back to the sofa and knelt in front of her old man, placing the cup on the side table. He aged so drastically; the wrinkles multiplying at the corners of his eyes, his graying and unshaven face so pale and sickly. She gnawed on her bottom lip, studying the permanent frown lines on his forehead and his premature receding hairline.

"You need to stop this, dad," she murmured. "If she were to see you right now, I can almost guarantee you'd be in the doghouse instead."

He stirred for a bit.

"She loved you very much; please don't forget that."

* * *

**I can fake a smile  
****I can force a laugh**

Working as a shop girl didn't pay much—minimum wage and all that crap—and she loathed it every single time the bell jingled at the door to signal a new customer because she had just finished arranging those damn sweaters when an obnoxious-looking lady sauntered in with those designer shoes and that ridiculous magenta coat, sniffing the air like she bloody owned the place.

Quinn eyed her warily. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a cardigan as a birthday present for my daughter," the woman told her rather haughtily. "Preferably Angora, and in powder pink."

"Sorry, ma'am, we don't have that here."

The shallow slapper scorned, clearly unable to accept such an answer. "Of course," she huffed. "Didn't know what I was thinking."

"Yeah, me neither."

* * *

She was closing up that night, locking the front door as usual, when a pair of strong arms encircled her torso from behind. It startled her and she whipped around, finding herself face-to-face with a familiar, roguish face and those unmistakable pair of green eyes. He kept his hold on her firm as a flicker of recognition crossed her features. The corner of his full lips twitched in amusement.

"Hello."

"Son of a bitch, Sam," she snapped, slapping him on the shoulder. "You scared the fucking crap out of me."

Immediately after, she flinched at her disregard for profanities because she wasn't one for using them like that; it just wasn't her. Quinn parted her mouth, an apology already on the tip of her tongue; but before she could articulate her words, he had swooped down to snog her senseless, effectively shutting her up. Long, dexterous fingers weaved themselves into her hair as he tugged her closer. She melded into him without restraint—without question or hesitation—bunching up the fabric of his soft cotton shirt in her hands.

"Hello," she breathed.

"I fucking love it when you cuss," he crooned, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. "Turns me on."

She gave him a light shove. "We're in public."

"And nobody's around," he quipped impishly. "I can take you right here and—"

"No, don't—"

He took a dangerous step forward and boldly pressed her up against the brick wall, and at once, his musky scent assaulted her senses. A trail of smoldering hot liquid seared into her veins; it was making her head spin. "Don't?"

"Don't."

* * *

They ended up at a pub—a quaint little corner a couple of blocks away from her apartment—that couldn't be bothered carding underage minors, and she gleefully announced her sudden craving for buffalo wings and beer.

"Seriously?"

She slid onto the barstool, shooting a murderous glare his way. "Are you judging me?"

He masked on a façade of innocence as he held his hands up in mock surrender. "I wouldn't dare, Quinn Fabray."

They grinned stupidly at each other for a while, oblivious to the rest of the world, because it was these little moments that they cherished the most—the rare opportunity that they were allowed to freely enjoy—no matter how brief it was. It would vanish soon, as it always did with them; the universe was a heartless place, after all, so they found solace in things people took for granted.

"What's the occasion, Sam?"

Even so, she wasn't an idiot.

He paused for a moment, and she watched as he struggled to gather his wits. His hands were clasped together on the countertop; he coughed and cleared his throat, and then expelled a puff of air. The bartender—an old, scruffy guy with a red bandanna tied around his head—set their pints of cheap lager in front of them and ambled off without a second look.

"I've been thinking about what you said last night."

She stiffened at his words. "About what?"

He reached for the beer, though he didn't take a gulp. "This place, it's toxic."

"Sam—"

"No, you're right," he murmured, distractedly rapping his knuckles against the polished wooden surface. "We need to get out of here."

"Where is this coming from?"

"Karofsky is coming to get me, Q, and he's not going to stop until he succeeds."

* * *

The barbequed wings were long gone; they were on their third round of beer, and Quinn was getting drowsy. Someone had started up the rusty jukebox at the corner some time in the night and oldies country music was playing out of the speakers. Nothing about the place matched, but she rather enjoyed the irony. Subconsciously, she let out a chuckle, attracting Sam's attention as he took a pull from his cigarette.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I can't believe you," she grumbled, already regretting the morning to come. "I still have to go to work in six hours, you jerk."

"What?" he snickered, reaching over to shift the stray wisps of her hair out of her face, tucking them neatly behind her ear. His hand lingered, his knuckle brushing against the soft skin of her cheek. "God, you're adorable when you have alcohol in your system."

"I hate you."

His gaze shifted all of a sudden, his slightly-glazed eyes darting to a spot over her shoulder and his muscles went rigid. He frowned, jaws twitching; his brows furrowed and his lips set in a thin line, practically glowering. Quinn tilted her head inquisitively and was about to speak up when he beat her to it.

"We need to go now, Q."

She blinked. "What's wrong?"

He gave a curt nod towards the entrance. "Those thugs there, they're Karofsky's men," he said, his voice strained. "We need to get out of here."

Quinn stole a quick glimpse at the front door. "What if I distract them while you leave?"

"No," he was quick to rebut with a shake of his head, blonde hair falling over. "If they know you're with me, they'll come after you too."

The neon sign flashing against the back wall caught her attention.

"Back exit."

"Good idea."

* * *

Their hasty footsteps echoed in tandem with her racing heart, and it was all Quinn could hear thumping in her ears. Slipping out had been surprisingly easy—the dim lights, accompanied by the inconspicuous location of the washrooms, had aided them in the escape—and they were almost certain that they were safe from the goons.

Just then, there was a loud clank that reverberated off the walls in the dark alley. She yelped, almost tripping over her own feet as she felt the panic welling up in her throat; but then his hand slid into hers, grasping tight, and he all but uttered a word.

"Run."

* * *

"Did we lose them?"

There was a hard jerk to her elbow and the next thing she knew, she was hauled against a rough brick wall and a second later, she was squished up against his heaving chest in an attempt to shield her from the world. They molded perfectly; each curve and each line, so exquisitely flawless. His hot breath skirted the side of her neck, sending a lustful shot of desire spiraling down to her core.

"Sam?"

"What?" he hissed, his voice gruff and slightly wary.

"You're kind of…"

She trailed off, unsure what to say. In her defense, it was painfully difficult to concentrate when she was fully engulfed in Sam Evans; he was intoxicating.

"What?"

He must've realized something was off when she failed to reply, and then he was glancing down between them, their lips a scant of breath apart. Noses bumped lightly against each other as he loosened his vice-like hold on her hips. His thumbs stroked tantalizing circles on the silver strip of skin that was unconsciously exposed, eliciting a gasping sigh from her, and with a tilt of her head, Quinn found herself entranced by his hypnotic green eyes.

"You fuck me here, Sam, and I swear to God I'll kick your sorry ass."

Despite the dangerous note in her warning, she knew that he was never one for following basic instructions; he very much saw it as a dare, and he never really could resist it—not when it involved her in a pleasurably compromising position.

With a smirk so salacious, he replied.

"It's going to be worth it."

* * *

**I can dance and play the part  
****If that's what you ask  
****Give you all I am**

Quinn thought she heard the first droplets of rain, but she couldn't be sure; she was flying. The chill of the ocean zephyr caressed her flushed cheeks, now pink from the cold as she soared above the cerulean sea towards the offing line. She loved it here; the subtle taste of salt on the tip of her tongue and the warmth in the air, and up ahead, she watched the sun sink below the horizon. Painted in hues of orange and yellow, the sky was her oubliette; a place she went to forget.

She was so near now—she could feel the tingles in every nerve ending—but she was so alone. This place; it was empty.

And then he was there with her, intertwining his long fingers with her dainty ones. His rough, calloused palm rubbed soothingly against hers, and he was positively beaming in delight. She ever only saw him so buoyant and insouciant here when they were together like this; she loved it. Her heart thrummed in a song—something bittersweet, if not a little melancholic—as she thought about what could've been for them.

"Sam…"

His boyish grin grew at the breathless sound of his name, and he turned to face her.

"We're here, Q."

Some place distant; unreachable.

Somewhere only they knew.

Some place just for them.

"Just me and you."

* * *

A gasp.

A guttural groan.

One final thrust and he snapped, emptying himself inside her, shudders wrecking through his body, and all she could do was cling desperately onto him as she cried out into the night sky. Ripples of fireworks exploded in the pits of her stomach, and together, they plunged into the blissful abyss of ecstasy.

Upon returning back to Earth, they slumped down—spent and fully satiated—on the wet ground. The last remnants of rain were still trickling down, and Quinn grumbled in protest when she realized that her clothes were soaked through.

"What the hell, Sam," she griped, inspecting her jacket. "I told you—"

"Yeah," he snorted while zipping up his fly. "And I said that it was going to be worth it."

"Quite right, too."

* * *

She arrived home to an empty apartment, her dad nowhere in sight. A look of absolute disdain crossed her angelic features when she noticed the mess of empty beer bottles on the coffee table, and with a reluctant sigh, she threw them all in the bin before remembering to take the trash out.

The circular clock on the wall read that she had but three hours before reporting for work, but after tossing and turning for a good thirty minutes on her bed, Quinn reckoned that she wasn't sleepy and decided that she might as well keep herself occupied. Doing her best to straighten the place as much as possible, she ended up vacuuming every corner, every inch and under every carpet. She cleared out the fridge of expired food, did a second round of taking the rubbish out, and eventually ran out of chores to complete—that was, until she spied the laundry hamper overflowing with clothes.

She always did hers on Sundays; it was her only day off and what better way to spend it than at the Laundromat? Plucking the stray fag that she had found underneath the couch out of her pocket, she promptly lit it up and took a long drag. Reaching for the remote control, she switched the telly on and channel-surfed for a bit, not even sure what she had been expecting for program at such an ungodly hour, so she turned it off again.

Perhaps she ought to do the laundry, after all; there was a place that never closed but it was quite a couple of blocks away—a good twenty-minute walk—and it wasn't exactly the safest neighborhood to be wandering about before dawn.

"Oh, what the hell."

* * *

The scruffy guy sitting behind the counter openly leered at her as she entered, so she did a thing and flipped him off before promptly stalking off towards the furthest available machine. Ignoring the git's blatant ogling as she thought of a million different ways to castrate him, Quinn agitatedly began sorting the whites from the colored clothing, knowing that she would definitely need a smoke to deal with this. In her turbulence, she dropped a quarter, and she watched—like a clichéd slow-motion scene from a movie—as it rolled down the aisle and landed an inch away from the simpleton's feet.

Fingers reached down for it.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath as she noticed him approaching from the corner of her eye. "Shit, shit, shit."

"You alright there, doll?"

He talked with a lazy slur, as though he couldn't be bothered to properly enunciate his words, and it was off-putting, especially when she could smell something suspiciously like weed on his person.

When she failed to respond, he continued, "Dropped something."

Silently, she snatched the coin out of his outstretched palm and waited till he got the message that she wanted him to piss off before resuming with her task. He slunk away, back to his initial spot behind the counter—mildly sulking—and she rejoiced in the reprieve from needing to entertain him with pointless idle conversation. Punching buttons to get the machines started, she waited until they were in full cycle, and then headed out.

She just wanted to be alone right now.

* * *

A lit up cigarette sat between the valley of her fingers, and she paused to release a stream of smoke from her lungs. Sat down on the curb, she cradled a notebook in her lap, writing furiously to fill the empty spaces. Words skated across the dotted lines in a dance she was so familiar with; her sweet escape.

She wrote of dreams; of unshed tears.

She penned down colors that she couldn't see; the different shades of fears.

She told unsung tales of flying—of soaring across Neverland—and allowed herself to feel.

Some place distant; unreachable.

Somewhere only they knew.

Some place just for them.

"Just me and you."

* * *

With a bag of freshly cleaned clothes, Quinn trudged back to the apartment. She had less than an hour to get to work, and she was positive she reeked of beer and smoke—and perhaps a hint of rain. Her hair felt icky and she would prefer to brush her teeth first at least. Unlocking the door, she lumbered in, only to find her dad perched on the couch with his head in his hands.

"Dad?" she softly called out, not wanting to spook him. Slowly, she edged nearer to him. "You okay?"

He glanced up, and immediately she noticed the familiar glazed-looked in his eyes and the inebriated crimson hue in his sunken unshaved cheeks; her father was inevitably still a drunken mess. It ached to see him so broken and reckless with his health; simply a ghost of a man he once was when her mom was still alive.

"What—what you doin' here, Quinn?" he gurgled.

"I—I live here, dad."

"Oh," he snickered, hollow and deafening. "What are you doin' up so late?"

"Just got back from the Laundromat," she explained with a weak smile. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for work?"

He shook his head, and then gave a nonchalant shrug.

"Got fired."

She gnawed on her bottom lip, fidgeting with the hem of her flannel top, unsure of how to react. It wasn't his first time, after all, but jobs were scarce, especially for a man who had dropped out of high school during his sophomore year without a proper diploma. They were already behind on rent above everything else; she didn't know how they were going to afford to live.

"Oh."

* * *

**I can do it**

She was tired; so tired, and all she wanted to do was curl up in bed and fall asleep. Hours dragged on as she tended to pompous customers who scorned at her lack of fashion sense, and she was itching for a smoke before all hell broke loose in her system. The minimalistic-looking clock on the wall taunted her with each ticking second, and after glowering at it for a good five minutes; she reckoned she was going bat-shit crazy, so she yelled to Emma, informing her that she was going on a break before stalking out the back door to sit next to a rubbish dump.

**I can do it**

It was her last stick; the next packet would have to wait because she was living on ten bucks to sustain her till the cheque came in.

She let out a frustrated cry.

The lighter refused to work.

"Fuck."

**I can do it**

* * *

**A/N:** I hope that's not too depressing. LOL! I'm a happy person, I swear! Also, if you're a huge Doctor Who fan, I'm sure you'd get some of the references and lines that I've managed to slot in :P

Song used: "Human" by Christina Perri


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Hi guys! Apologies for the huge delay! Life got in the way and what not; you get my drift. Here's part 2!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Human**

**Part 2**

Long, drawn-out moans and breathy gasping whimpers filled the tiny space of the back room toilet. He was taking her repeatedly—urgently—against the cold ceramic sink, the smooth edges digging into her spine, but she couldn't be assed to care. Desperately, she clutched onto fistfuls of his shaggy blonde hair, stilling his head while questing lips latched onto the exposed length of her slender neck. A rousing growl rumbled low in his throat, and she knew that he was close—could sense it in the way he squeezed the soft curve of her hips—and shifted just so to better accommodate his engorged member.

"Fuck, Q," he groaned. His eyelids slammed shut; a barely controlled restrain. "So close."

She hummed, far from coherent to conjure proper syllables. Her nails raked crimson paths down his back with the way he was impelling himself deeper into her core, a delicious friction amidst the lecherous sounds of slapping skin.

"Shit," he hissed before biting down on her shoulder. "I don't think I can—"

"Let. Go."

His dexterous fingers snaked between their conjoined bodies to finally take her over the edge.

"Sam!" she cried out, arching further into his sweat-slicked body. Blissful tremors crashed over her as she completely fell apart.

He spun her then, forcibly with little to no finesse—before she could fully recover from the euphoric aftershocks—and braced her hands against the paper-thin wall. Gripping onto the sides of her waist, he wasted no time lining himself up once again and driving into her sleek opening. Soft mewls and near sobs tumbled out from between her swollen lips, and when she chanced upon their reflections in the mirror—two lust-crazed teenagers indulging lecherously despite bigger velleities—a fresh wave of heat began pooling in her nether region, and then she was clenching around him.

They weren't going to reach Neverland—not this time.

It wasn't their escape; it was hers.

She was chasing a finish line that wasn't in sight, that wasn't reachable.

Where was she?

Where were they?

Utopia seemed so far away; some place distant.

Yet, it was where she wanted to be.

"Quinn…"

So she sucked in a breath and hoped that he'd take her there.

When he stumbled into sheer oblivion seconds later, face scrunched up in the height of his climax—uninhibited and vulnerable— her heart took flight. Watching him then, as he succumbed to such wanton pleasures, she reckoned it was undoubtedly the most gorgeous thing she had ever seen.

"Just me and you."

* * *

**But I'm only human  
****And I bleed when I fall down  
****I'm only human**

Moments passed in silence before he broke it.

Jammed together in the dingy backseat of someone's old pick-up—the one he had been working on for the entire week—with a stick passed between them, his quiet murmur pierced through the air.

"What's wrong?"

He had noticed; of course he had, even through that sex rut, and she wouldn't expect anything less, but in spite of herself—reflexively—she froze. Her spine went rigid as she straightened to sort her thoughts out. In an attempt to avoid his penetrating stare, she began rolling the cigarette between her finger and thumb, fixing her attention at the amber glow pulsing at the tip. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was hot enough to scald through her skin.

The garage was empty—the other mechanics had gone home and he was always the last one to leave, anyway—and the night was cold and bitter. It was the worst thing to be sitting out there, but between them, they had quite a fondness for enclosed vehicular spaces.

"Don't do this, Q."

She refused to answer him.

"Look at me, please," he pleaded softly, the huskiness in his tone more prominent from the smoke. "Don't shut me out."

The nervous habit kicked in. Catching her bottom lip with her teeth, she began gnawing. Flakes of ash created constellations against the dark material of her jeans, but she couldn't be bothered to brush them off.

"I can't leave, Sam; at least not right now."

He grew quiet and contemplative, and quite honestly the exact reaction she had expected because Sam Evans always seemed calmer on the surface than he cared to reveal. Hanging onto the last fragment of strength to face up to him, she reluctantly lifted her gaze to meet his. Behind those emerald orbs—face half-shadowed by a lonesome street lamp—the wheels were turning in his head, a thousand different emotions flickering in those deep intense pools.

"Your dad?" he asked darkly.

"I have to stay."

* * *

The cheque came in and it wasn't much of anything at all—just barely enough to scrape through till the end of the month—give or take the days she reckoned she could possibly nick a bite from Emma's homemade salad at work. She did the math in her head—bills, grocery, medication—and wondered if Figgins would be kind enough to grant her another extension on the rent.

Her landlord was an uptight man—foreign and incredibly barmy at times—but he wasn't heartless in any way—or at least she hoped not. Prior encounters with him suggested he kept to himself a lot; safety purposes, no doubt, though she had arrived home on several occasions to find that stacks of coupons had been slipped under the door.

God bless him.

Cans of soup that went for a dollar for three, one-for-one microwave meals, half off loo rolls, and food that wouldn't go bad for weeks. They weren't much different from before; she simply got better at it. Money had always been an unstable flux in the house, even when it was just the two of them, and she grew to hate it because there never was enough.

There never would be enough.

* * *

She was fourteen when she perfected the art of shoplifting. It started small, with a blue ballpoint pen that she needed to complete her History essay, and as she jingled the three dimes she had in her pocket, it was apparent she couldn't afford anything at all. The store was relatively empty—a small shop at the corner—and the cashier was busy ringing up a customer's purchase; the coast was clear. Palms sweaty from clenching too tightly onto the strap of her canvas backpack, her heart thudding in her ears, Quinn sucked a quick breath.

Before she could think to bail, the pen was safely tucked underneath the sleeve of her cheap sweater. It was just too easy.

And with everything else, she grew to be ambitious. Sometimes she would swipe mindless trinkets that would fetch for a sandwich in school in a barter trade, or perhaps a bar of chocolate that she would end up sharing with Sam, or a box of condoms that they really wouldn't use, but over the years, her uncanny skills helped in the simplest of ways.

It wasn't pretty, but it would do.

Especially when she needed it the most.

Chips crunched too much and she wasn't particularly keen on anything sweet that wouldn't rustle each time she moved, so her best option was the slim pack of gum. She wasn't interested in the flavor or the burst of minty freshness in her mouth, but it was sufficient to keep her occupied until she could bum a cigarette from Sam. As an afterthought, she pilfered a roll of sour candy that he liked so much, just so they were even.

It wasn't pretty, but it was the least she could do.

* * *

Lying side-by-side on the flatbed of a broken truck, two figures stared up at the velvet sky, squinting through the haze of smoke and city lights to locate the sprinkle of stars that would inevitably be the beacon in their solace. The silence settled comfortably between them, the half-opened pack of gum lodged in her pants, and for a moment, she was lost to her surroundings.

She wrote words in the air; painted them with whispered fantasies.

She filled the dark holes with shades of yellow and red, and as an afterthought, she added in a bit of blue.

She wondered where heaven was, which way she ought to fly; so caught up with her head in the clouds, she didn't realize that he had taken her hand in his. Long calloused fingers intertwined with her dainty ones, and it was only when she received a comforting squeeze did she turn to finally look at him.

"How long are you going to stay with me?"

Her breath hitched. The vulnerable way in which he was gazing at her—a mixture of hope and fear, and a twinge of desperation—brought unsuspecting tears to her eyes.

"Forever."

* * *

They danced a slow tango amongst the black of night, hoping to grasp as tightly to the tenderness as they possibly could. Quinn gazed up at the limitless heights where she traced patterns on the twinkling dots, afraid that if she were to blink even once, it would all vanish before her eyes. His warm breath ghosted over the shell of her ear; her fingers curled around the soft hair at the back of his neck, and she reveled at such a rarity when they weren't consumed with the need to devour each other.

This was a slow built—a steady ascend where she knew the flame would burn the hottest between them—and as he slid into her, agonizingly slow, she arched into his brilliant touch with the quietest of whimpers. His rough, calloused hand kneaded the swell of her hip in continuous circles—soothingly, almost achingly tranquil—and with a gasp, she clenched around his throbbing shaft.

"Quinn…"

He strained against her, tight and taut and trembling, and she was still staring up at Cassiopeia and counting the stars of Cepheus with goose bumps on her skin. Two strokes later and he tumbled over, mumbling incoherently into the juncture of her shoulder.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Hold me?"

Sam turned to her then, the tip of his nose brushing the side of her cheek, his stunning green eyes still glazed over, and he was so heart-wrenchingly gorgeous, she couldn't look away.

"Please?"

He nodded.

"Just me and you."

* * *

She heard the shouts and loud verbal insults all the way from the cross junction and immediately took off running. The worn-out grooves in her shoes dug painfully at her heels, biting into the sting, but she kept going. Legs pumping, the brisk air pricking her lungs, she bolted up the endless flights of stairs—ten floors' worth of heart burn—and came upon the scene unraveling in the middle of the hallway.

"Are you fucking deaf?" he dad was yelling—a nuisance clad in a shirt and a pair of dirty shorts—as he jabbed a finger rudely against the other man's chest. Still panting from the exertion, Quinn paled after comprehending the situation. "You have no fucking right coming over here, knocking on my damn door and demanding for your fucking money, you little piece of—"

"Mr. Figgins!" she exclaimed, hastily sliding herself between the two conflicting adults with a manic grin plastered across her face. "Good evening! How may I help you tonight?"

The sour frown on her landlord's face faltered for a split second—replaced by a tiny speck of compassion—before it deepened considerably into a loathsome scowl, and she didn't think that she could feel any more of a cockroach than she already did. Her nails coiled into her palms; the near-grimace remained numb on her lips.

"Get out of the way, Quinn."

"No, dad, please, just let me handle this," she requested with a firmness that she knew would get through to her old man—very much like her late mother in that aspect—and for a fleeting beat, she thought she saw a flicker of resignation in her father's hardened eyes.

"You don't get it," he snarled menacingly, teeth bared and feet apart. "This son of a bitch thinks he can—"

"Dad, please—"

"Just because I'm fucking jobless doesn't mean I'm an ass-shitting freeloader," Russell Fabray spat out, and when he took a dangerous step forward, she could smell the whiff of cheap lager on his clothes. "Don't make me kick you and your foreign posse back to whichever slums you've managed to crawl out of—"

"Mr. Fabray," the agitated authority began, his glare betraying the composure in his thick-accented tone. "Your rent is three months overdue. I should remind you that if you fail to settle it, I am inclined to evict you from the property—"

"You can't do that." Her dad's chest shoved painfully against her shoulder blades when he lunged forward and brought her an inch away from the other man's nose. She cowered at the proximity, and sensing her distress, he took pity on her uncomfortable position and backed up, but the narrow corridor only meant that he was pressed against the opposite wall instead. "You have no fucking right—"

"Dad—"

She was blocking him now, but he was so much stronger.

"Get the fuck out of my way, Quinn."

It happened so fast; she was knocked off her feet onto the carpeted floor that reeked of stale beer and smoke and everything in between, and it should terrify her, but the single most apparent thing rising in her throat was sheer panic. Everything was escalating, and Figgins' lack of retaliation was only fueling her father's flaring rage. Shakily, she scrambled to lift herself off the putrid ground.

"Mr. Fabray, I urge you to calm down—"

"Don't fucking tell me what to do!"

He had a fist poised in the air, ready to strike, and on impulse, she threw herself in his path. "No!" Eyes squeezed impossibly shut, she braced for impact.

It never came.

"The fuck, Quinn?" he seethed, red and wild. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Just get your pretty ass out of the way and let me beat the shit out of this piece of trash, will you?"

She stared back just as defiantly. Her hands were trembling; her muscles ached, but she refused to bow down to her old man—not like that.

"If you do that, you'll go to jail."

He blinked, unmoving, so she continued.

"Then where will that leave me?"

**And I crash and I break down  
****Your words in my head, knives in my heart  
****You build me up and then I fall apart  
****'Cause I'm only human**

* * *

It was foolish to think that Sam wouldn't notice the slight flinch that she failed to suppress each time he pressed a little too hard against the small bruise on her hip. Though the lights were dim in the vicinity of her bedroom, his sharp gaze never left her face, and each unconcealed grimace was a parade show dancing on her features.

"Okay, no."

He halted his movements so abruptly, an involuntary whimper ripped through her chest.

"You're doing it again," he accused with a growl, brows furrowed in a way that suggested just how pissed off he was going to be. "Damn it, Q, I thought we were past this."

"It's nothing," she blurted out in desperation as she hooked one leg around his waist, urging him to resume his previous ministrations, because this intervention wasn't what she wanted.

His still-throbbing member twitched deep inside of her but he made no further implications of complying with her silent request. Hands braced on either side of her head, hovering over her naked body, his breath ghosted over her reddened lips with every syllable.

"You're a fucking rubbish liar," he told her coldly. "Your eyes are doing that bit where they don't match your mouth."

Distract him; that was her plan.

It shouldn't be this difficult.

With an uncharacteristic boldness she didn't know she possessed, Quinn suggestively ran her tongue across the upper seam of said mouth and pinned him with the filthiest of smirks that she knew would always leave him absolutely besotted.

"Don't even," he warned, and before she could attempt another sorry excuse, he had hopped out of bed.

Exposed, vulnerable and rejected—a combination she loathed to the bone—Quinn tugged the sheets over her naked chest and curled into the warm imprints that his body had left on the mattress, and all at once, she wanted to fade away into the shadowed corners of the room. The duvet smelled like them—like a bright promise of their coupling—that it left her seeking for more. Perhaps if she drifted off and dreamt, she might still reach her Neverland.

"What happened, Q?"

It was quiet in her head now, a steady buzz like static and white noise, and it was incredibly lulling, but then he was throwing the covers off her and light flooded into her pupils.

There was a devastating moment; a catch in his throat and a tremble in his fingertips.

"Son of a bitch."

He didn't sound angry, or resentful, or repulsed. His words lacked the weight it deserved, and she wasn't sure if that scared her more. For all that Sam Evans had seen, and for all she had seen of him, Quinn didn't think he had ever been so truly broken.

So she surrendered.

She was tired; so tired, and in exhaustion, she decided she needed to tell him.

"I fell."

* * *

She never wanted to taint her journal with nightmares—never wanted to mar the clean pages with splotches of black—but every so often, a word would slip and she would hate her life just that little bit more. The playground of dreams blurred between the dotted lines where she wrote. They were lies, vacant wishful thinking and wistful lyrics to her endless song, and for the first time in a long while, she dragged her pen across the entire paragraph. The ink smudged at the end where she pressed too hard.

He noticed it.

When his roughened hand wrapped around her wrist, it almost startled her because she hadn't realized that he was awake. Drawing a ragged breath, she lifted her gaze to stare into those of his green eyes.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I—" she began, only to be at a loss right after.

He recognized the instant panic on her face and stroked her pulse point with the pad of his thumb. "Quinn?"

She couldn't bear to lie again.

"I don't know."

* * *

Emma had called in sick, so she was left fending for herself in the shop with a bunch of travelling hippies looking for organic tie-dye. They hounded her with pedantic questions that could rival the thesis of the black hole, and when they had eventually left—glaring at her as though she was the one high on weed—Quinn had desperately needed a cigarette.

It wasn't until half past three—when the place was half-milling with parents and their kids—that she was ambushed by the sight of her drunken father barreling in with a bottle in each hand. He tripped over the threshold, narrowly knocking into a stunned preschooler, and stumbled over to the counter, where she all but balked at his shameful behavior. Concerned mothers frowned and scorned with disapproval as they fled the store in hushed whispers.

"What are you doing here, dad?" she demanded furiously, stepping out from behind the cash register to stand before the unstable man, folding her arms across her chest. He smelled rank, and her nose scrunched up in disdain. "You're drunk, and you're a mess. You can't just come barging in here and scaring the customers."

"That's a fucking load of bull, Quinnie, and you know that," he garbled intangibly, swaying on his feet. "'Sides, it's not like there's anybody in this shit hole."

"What do you want, dad?"

Russell Fabray squinted at her through unfocused eyes. "Want?" he parroted, his tone edging on condescending, and his face twisted with bitterness. "There are lots in this fucking world that I want, but it doesn't fucking matter now because she's gone. She's fucking gone, and there's nothing more that I want than to have her back but I can't." He stopped short, raking his fingers through his rumpled hair. "I can't, and it's fucking unfair."

Her heart ached for him.

"Dad—"

"Don't you just fucking hate the world, Quinn?" he cackled humorlessly. "That somebody up there is playing a fucking joke on you?"

She glanced away, only because she knew all too well what he meant.

"You need to go home, dad."

* * *

They were in the middle of a heated discussion regarding recent conspiracy theories and government secrets when Sam announced out of the blue that he wanted a burger and some fries. It would've been hilarious otherwise, but fast food was a luxury she couldn't afford.

"I'm buying," he offered, a full-blown grin on his lips—one that she only ever saw on the extremely rare occasion.

His child-like enthusiasm was infectious; she wanted to hold on to it for as long as she could and grasp it close to her heart to soothe the cracks in between, and as he wove his long fingers through hers, she couldn't fight the smile that spread across her weary features. He was offering a reprieve—albeit a short one—but it was enough, because for them, it was never just about the sex.

It was so much more.

"Come on, you know I can't eat all that fries by myself," he coaxed with a playful bump of his shoulder.

She nodded. "Better with two."

"Just me and you."

* * *

It was late one night—half part three—when she was jolted awake by the shrill blaring of her cellphone echoing off the walls in her bedroom. Still groggy from sleep, Quinn blindly reached out for the device, half expecting to hear Sam on the other end of the line complaining about one thing or another, but when the gravelly, authoritative tone came through instead, her eyes snapped wide open.

"Good evening, this is Officer Christopher Hudson. May I speak to Ms. Quinn Fabray please?"

A heavy chill settled in her chest where her heart was pounding at a mile a minute and instinctively, her fingers flexed around the cold object in her hand. The scenarios and possibilities were coming in too fast for her slumber-addled brain to keep up, and it wasn't until she heard her name being called repeatedly that she jolted out of her trance.

"Yes, this is Quinn speaking," she answered in barely a whisper.

"Ms. Fabray, I'm calling to inform you that as of two forty-five tonight, your father, Russell Fabray have been apprehended for disorderly conduct while intoxicated under the influence of alcohol, and that we will be holding him for the night to sober up," he monotonously explained. "What we need you to do is to come down to the station to fill in a couple of forms. Would that be a problem for you?"

She swallowed the bitterness in her throat.

"No, that won't be a problem, sir."

"Thank you, I appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Fabray."

As soon as the dial tone hit her ear, she dropped the phone.

Burying her face in her hands, she cried.

* * *

Quinn took one last shaky drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out on the concrete pavement. The frigid wind ruffled her blonde hair and bit into her cheeks, and with a long exhale, she trudged up the flight of stairs that led to the police station. After signing in at the entrance, she was ushered to the desk of the officer in charge.

**I can turn it on  
****Be a good machine**

"Ms. Fabray," the man addressed her with standard propriety. "I apologize for having you come down here at this hour of the night—"

"It's no trouble at all, sir," she chuckled nervously, toying with a loose thread on her shirt. "I should be the one apologizing on my dad's behalf, you know, if he was causing some unnecessary disruption. He's not usually one to wander around like that drunk and create a ruckus; it's been hard for him lately."

"Would you care to share a bit about what's been going on?" he prodded gently, and the sincerity almost fooled her to believe that he cared.

She hesitated because it wasn't any of his business, police officer or not, and her family woes wasn't a reality TV show that she would like to broadcast to the entire world. They weren't a charity case for people to poke at and scrutinize under a microscope. The last thing she needed was more attention to herself.

"You know, my son went to school with you," the deputy revealed candidly. "His name is Finn, and he talked some about how pretty you are."

She blinked and felt her face burn up.

"Excuse me?"

The amusement was evident in his knowing smirk. "He had quite a crush on you, my boy, and he was actually bummed that you never noticed him. In fact, he kept whining about that other blonde boy that you're always with, you know."

"I—I wasn't—I'm sorry—I never—"

"Don't worry about it. He's in New York now with this girl, Rachel, so he's got someone else to drool over."

Quinn wasn't sure how she was supposed to react to that.

"That's good to know."

He drummed his fingers against the wooden surface of the table to fill the sudden onslaught of silence resonating in the space between them.

"Heard what happened to your mom," he continued tentatively, the mirth draining in his voice. When all she did was press her lips together in a thin line, he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. She was really good friends with Carole, my wife."

Her gaze dropped to her lap, staring intently at the fabric of her pants as though it was her ticket out of hell. She wasn't good at this—the emotional stuff and the psychoanalysis—and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, itching to bolt at any given time if only he would speed it up and make her sign the necessary paperwork without the additional pity party.

"Yeah, well…"

She trailed off, unable to offer him anything more.

"Your old man has been going on about her since he got here. I don't think he's dealing well with the loss. He should see a therapist—"

"We don't have the money," she cut in rather curtly, the sore subject hitting a nerve.

"Oh!" He looked genuinely taken aback. "Well, in that case—"

"Can I see him?"

"Yes, of course you can."

**I can hold the weight of worlds  
****If that's what you need  
****Be your everything**

* * *

When she decided to drop by and check up on him during lunch, Russell Fabray was already out cold on the couch in heap of his own mess. Empty bottles were strewn about— one rolling as far as the fridge in the kitchenette—and it struck her then that she wasn't at all surprised by the sight. Nothing had changed; nothing was going to change, and somewhere deep in the abyss of her guts, she had grown to accept that.

Didn't mean it hurt any less every time.

It just meant that she had gone numb.

* * *

**I can do it**

She was closing the cash register—tallying the sales and securing the money—when his number flashed on his cellphone. The device vibrated against the counter top, screaming for attention, and with a sigh, Quinn answered the call.

"I'm still closing up, Sam," she spoke into the receiver, cradling the piece of technology between her ear and shoulder as she counted the notes in her hands.

"Quinn…"

He was breathing heavily, voice strained, and everything else seemed to suspend in air. The stack of bills fluttered to the ground as tears involuntarily sprung into her eyes. A loud scrape of denim against the rough cobblestones caused a disturbing crackle, and with trembling fingers, she held onto the phone for all she was worth.

**I can do it**

"Where are you?" she choked out.

There was a sharp wince, followed by a low groan.

"Back," he grunted. "Alley."

**I'll get through it**

* * *

**A/N:** God, this is actually difficult! I swear, I don't think I've ever written something so dark and depressing before; I have to keep writing this in bits before I drown myself at work. LOL!

**Lefranco:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and I'm glad that you're excited for the story! Yeah, I mean, I do love the "corny dramatic" stories, and I'm sure I've written a few of them, but I love challenging myself, and venturing new styles and new genres to avoid being type casted. I still have one active story going on, so there was absolutely no way I was stopping after Whisper in my Ear! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Dosqueen67:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it! I'm glad that in the midst of all the darkness, you still found the story sexy and intriguing! It's something really different that I've decided to venture into, and I wanted it to have a poetic notion going on. I can't reveal at the moment what role Karofsky plays in this story, but that will be explained in the next chapter! Hope you've enjoyed this! Cheers!

**OhHeyAl:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! LOL! I've squeezed in a few more Doctor Who references, but I'm really flattered that you actually didn't notice those bits! It's a wonderful compliment! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**RJRRAA:** Hello there! As always, thank you so much for reading and never failing to leave a review! I really appreciate it every time! Thank you so much for the lovely comments; I'm really flattered! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Guest:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Glad you liked the song and story so far! Cheers!

**Ashley:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I'm glad that you liked the song and how the story is progressing so far! Hope I don't disappoint you, then. Cheers!

Song used: "Human" by Christina Perri


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Hey guys! The whole Samcedes thing is driving me insane, so here's the next chapter of the 4-parter!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Human**

**Part 3**

She crumbled to the ground and cradled his head in her lap. Pushing the hair out of his eyes, she gently whispered his name, a soft plead in her voice that had him groaning with the effort it took to assure her that he was semi-conscious. The bruises were already forming black and blue patches across his jaw and his left cheek, and blood was still trickling down the side of his face from the corner of his temple, but she knew that the damage was only worse on the inside.

"We need to go to the hospital now, Sam," she insisted urgently.

"No. Don't."

He was trembling in her arms, his breathing labored and coming out in shuddering puffs of air, and in wild panic, she searched him for broken bones or signs of internal bleeding. Careful not to hurt him, Quinn lifted the hem of his T-shirt and grimaced at the large dark purple blotch just beneath his ribcage. With an unsteady hand, she brushed her fingers over the ugly coloring, feeling her throat constrict when he winced in pain.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered. "So sorry."

"Just let me sleep, Quinn."

* * *

It was an agonizing struggle but somehow or another, a dreadful hour later, they made it back to her apartment. Her dad wasn't home—the darkness through the window seen from across the road was enough of an indication—and as she blindly felt around for the switch, Sam leaning heavily against her side, she couldn't have been any more grateful for his absence. The misplaced appreciation wasn't lost on her, because for all she knew, he could very well be causing another public nuisance, but that was the least of her worries.

When at last the living room was illuminated, she flinched at the mayhem that seemed to have barfed right in the middle of her quarters. Shards of glass from broken bottles of beer were scattered about on the floor, intermingled with bits of ceramic from shattered plates, and her heart grew cold.

Sam groaned in her ear, his eyelids starting to droop.

"No, stay with me," she begged. "We're here; just a bit more."

"Fuck, hurts like a bitch."

It took another ten minutes to haul him to her bedroom where she deposited him gingerly onto her mattress, and then proceeded to remove his sneakers and socks from his feet. The first aid kit was in the kitchenette, and after sidestepping the sharp fragments, she managed to retrieve it from the high cupboard. Remembering to grab a bottle of water from the fridge and a couple of face towels from the bathroom, she returned to the dozing Sam Evans.

"Hey, no, you need to keep yourself awake," she softly chastised, shoving two pills into his palm. "Painkillers; take them."

He swallowed the medication willingly while she got busy stripping him of the leather jacket and shirt, leaving his torso bare, and for her to finally notice the full extent of his injuries. The gasp that tore from her throat was involuntary, and shamefully, he glanced away to stare at the bare walls.

"Son of a bitch."

* * *

He had drifted off some time while she was stroking the back of his hair and humming an old tune that she remembered from when her mom used to sing her to sleep. The biting chill entered through the open window, but even as she shivered in the nipping weather, she couldn't bring herself to shift and wake him up.

Reaching for the thin covers, she pulled it over his bandaged chest and sat up against the headboard, ready to brave the long, dire night.

* * *

She stared down at the blank pages, a pen poised and ready to be of service, only to hesitate with slight disappointment when the words refused to shine through. Her pulse sped up, a blanket of reverence settling in the pits of her stomach, and through the internal thunderstorm, she told herself to breathe.

Where were the colors when she needed them the most?

Where were the premises of a sweet escape that lingered like a beacon of promises?

Some place distant; unreachable.

His soft snores reached her ears, and despite herself—despite everything else—she smiled.

"Just me and you."

* * *

A loud bang startled her awake as she cringed against the sunlight flooding into her irises. She shrunk back, squeezing her eyes shut, until the heavy thumping of footsteps jolted her upright with an alarmed yelp.

"Shit," she cursed softly, noticing a tuft of Sam's hair sticking out from under the cotton sheets. Reaching over, she gave him a few frantic shakes. "Sam, Sam, wake up. My dad's home."

He grunted, but when it appeared that he wasn't going anywhere, she scrambled for the door to find her old man hunched over the kitchen sink, one hand absently feeling around for something. When he couldn't locate what he was finding for, he spat out a string of cusses and growled to the ceiling.

"What are you looking for, dad?"

Russell Fabray staggered backwards, swaying on his feet before he could successfully turn to face her. Hair askew and clothes that reeked all the way from where she stood, he was in need of a thorough shower and a hearty meal, but it was the hollowness in the way he stared right back at her that made her skin crawl.

"Have you seen it?" he groused.

She drew her arms protectively around herself. "Seen what?"

"Her ring," he spat out venomously, seething in a way that bordered on predatory. "Where is it?"

"Dad—"

"Where the fuck is her ring, Quinn?" he snapped, slamming his palms against the countertop. "Tell me."

She was conflicted, threading precariously on fragile grounds. One wrong move, one single word, could send a series of spiraling repercussions on her unstable parental unit. Choking on a response, she shifted nearer to the wall.

"She kept it, dad," she whimpered, images of her mom's funeral flooding in her mind. "She wore it to her grave."

His features pinched in grief, nose flaring, shoulders tensed with regret. She watched as it registered in his eyes that his wife was no longer in this world with him. Her fingers itched to comfort him, to share his pain and his blames, but her feet remained glued to the spot. The ache was back, that sheer tribulation of their loss of a woman so dear to their existence, and it stabbed at her heart, puncturing the air from her lungs.

"She's gone, Quinn."

Heavy sobs wrecked through his body as she watched on helplessly.

"Dad…"

"I need to see her."

And then he was gone, and she all but collapsed on the floor, knees huddled to her chest. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, and for the first time in a while, she wished her mother were there to hold her close.

* * *

They were back on that damn fire escape, the raw metal grating gnawing through the thin material of her shorts and his leather jacket draped around her shoulders, each with a fag between their fingers. She exhaled a wisp of smoke and cleared her throat, her tongue like dry sandpaper in her mouth.

"What happened, Sam?"

He took a last drag before stubbing the cigarette out and flicking it away. Keeping his gaze straight ahead, he uttered a name. "Karofsky."

"How?"

He shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"I could've lost you today."

"You could lose me any day."

She nodded, as terrifying as it was.

"I know."

* * *

Later, they would claim temporary insanity for their actions, but there was something so incredibly liberating to be taken so completely against the staircase while the world watched on in disregard. He had his jeans and boxers pooled around his ankles, and her panties shoved to the side as he plunged in and out of her wet heat with trained precision.

They weren't in any rush; he seemed to be taking his own sweet time, relishing in the way she cried out his name to the heavens each time he hit her at just the right spot, and it would've been perfect if it weren't so fucking lecherous. The wind twisted and twined between the strands of her hair, and the sharp edge of the stainless steel dug into her back, but it was the way he looked—so consumed with pleasure and arousal, and nothing else—that made every single bit of physical discomfort worth it.

"I love you."

He stumbled, almost crashing down on her, but she held onto him to cushion his fall.

"Quinn…"

She rocked her hips, enveloping more of him in her warmth as a groan rumbled low in his chest. He hid his face in the juncture of her neck, his grip on her waist almost harsh, possibly leaving prints on her skin, but still she waited patiently for him to catch up to the present. A slight quiver ran up his spine and through the fabric of their clothes, she felt his unsteady heartbeat, though he made no further movements to indicate anything more.

"I love you too."

* * *

Her stomach had been growling for the past hour, loud enough that Emma had pointedly arched an eyebrow and practically shoved the rest of her ham-and-cheese sandwich into her hands with a simple request.

"Eat."

Quinn stared at it for a second.

"Eat," her co-worker repeated with a wave of her hand. "Go on. You need it more than I do."

"Emma, I can't—"

"Seriously, Quinn," she insisted. "Take it, please."

A flush of embarrassment coated her cheeks, because she shouldn't have to do this, and yet she had. In a world where generosity was so sparse, it didn't come naturally to accept such munificence. It simply caught her off guard.

"Thank you."

* * *

She gasped as a plate sailed through the air and smashed against the wall barely inches from her head. Fragments littered the floor; her mom's finest China were now but shards of porcelain decorating the living room. Her eyes trailed the battlefield where several other fragile pieces of tableware had met their doomed fates to find her dad curled up on the couch, fuming at nothing in particular.

"Dad?"

Closing the door behind her, she cautiously crept into the apartment. The slight creak of the loose floorboards startled him out of this enraged stupor. Like a wound-up animal, his head snapped up towards the sound, his demeanor guarded, and in that split instant, she recoiled at the unrecognizable look in his eyes. Wild and manic, and barely a shadow of the man he used to be, Russell Fabray pinned her with a piercing glare that made the hair at the back of her neck stand.

"Where have you been, Quinn?"

"I—I was at work. I had to close up the store tonight and—"

"Where were you?" he bellowed, rising to his full height.

She cowered at his irate tone. "I—I just told you, dad—"

"Don't lie to me!"

"I'm not."

He crossed over to her in three long strides, his temper reverberating from every pore as he stood looming over her. The stench of stale alcohol on his clothes assaulted her nose as he leaned in, and all she could hear was the rapid thundering of her pulse in her ears.

"Don't fucking lie to me!"

His fist shot out.

Her arms sprung up to shield herself from the blow.

It never came.

The door became the unfortunate victim instead; the deep dent in the hollow wood a casualty to his attack. She whimpered, eyes squeezed shut, pressed up against the wall, hoping it would open up and swallow her whole because this wasn't her father. There was a monster residing in the person she once related so fondly to, his flesh and blood suddenly so foreign to her, and all she wanted to do was hide.

So she did.

Adrenalin pumping in her veins, she made a dash for her bedroom, making sure to lock the door as she sunk down into a sniveling heap. On the other side, there was another distinct crash—another plate being the sacrifice to his resentment—promptly followed by another.

And another.

**But I'm only human  
****And I bleed when I fall down  
****I'm only human**

Until she was too exhausted to do anything but drift off to Neverland.

* * *

Her muscles ached and there was a sore crick in her neck; the hardwood floor was uncomfortable, and dimly, she was aware that she had to get ready for work. With a stuffy head and puffy, swollen eyes, she dragged herself off the ground. The reflection staring back at her in the bathroom mirror was that of an emotional wreck. Face blotchy, hair an uncombed nest of blonde, and clothes wrinkled beyond help, she reckoned she could pass off as a homeless person in the streets.

She watched the water flow from the tap and drain down the hole in the sink, the flow of motion tranquilizing yet stimulating, and she gulped a lungful of air. It was dizzying, then, as she gripped the edges of the counter to steady herself.

Something was obscenely wrong.

She blinked in an attempt to clear the fog.

And then all was black.

* * *

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee stirred her back to consciousness—a pleasant welcome from the booze that permeated the place—and then she was lying across the sofa, a blanket cloaking her body. She registered the dull throbbing at the back of her skull, wondering what the hell that was about, but then she felt a dip in the cushion by her feet, the weight of somebody sitting down.

"Dad?"

He placed the mug on the table before turning to properly face her, and she nearly wept at the haunted look in his eyes—the sorrow, the apology, the shame, the remorse—and it took everything in her as she choked back a sob.

"Quinn…" he sighed.

"What happened?"

In any other context, it would've been a simple question, but the sentiment behind those two words meant so much more. She wanted to hear those unanswered moments, those unexplained emotions.

"You were in the bathroom," he croaked, running his hands over his tired features. "Heard a thump and you were passed out."

She didn't think—didn't hesitate—when she reached out and interlaced her fingers with his, jogging a memory so bitter outside that church years ago when it was just the two of them against the world; the day her mom left for good.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Don't, Quinn," he pulled away to stand up, a sort of panic in his stance. "I'm not—"

"You're still my dad."

He scoffed.

"Maybe I shouldn't be."

* * *

When the bell jingled at ten to nine, she genuinely hadn't expected him to come swaggering in with a take-out bag in one hand and a six-pack in another. Pleasantly surprised, her face lit up with a stunning grin as he held his offerings up to her and quirked an eyebrow. Smirking, he nodded towards the receipts that she had been counting before he entered.

"You've got ten seconds," he winked playfully. "Or I'm having this for myself."

"Sam, I can't. I still have stuff to do," she protested, albeit half-heartedly, gazing longingly at the food. "I'll probably be here for another half an hour or so."

Emma popped her head out from the back office. "No, you don't," she chirped. "Leave it, Quinn. I'll take over."

She was more than confused now, and frankly, a little dubious with the unlikely turn of events. "But I'm supposed to—"

"No, just go," Emma chuckled with a dismissive wave. "He called earlier. I promised him I'd give you an early night."

"You called?" she frowned.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Don't give me that. I do know how to operate a phone."

"But I—"

"Just go, Quinn," Emma asserted, giving the blonde a quick nudge away from the task. "Really. I'll be perfectly fine. William will be here later to pick me up."

"Okay."

* * *

No matter how hard she tried, he refused to give anything away; instead simply replying her with secretive looks as they strolled down the quiet pathway, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist. The well-worn leather scratched against the side of her cheek and smelled so distinctly of Sam Evans that she couldn't help burrowing her nose into his shoulder.

"Where on earth are you taking me?"

He rolled his eyes. "For the hundredth time, Quinn, I'm not telling you."

They stopped at one of those fancy office buildings—a skyscraper amidst the alleys and ugliness—and she felt herself stiffen, but he continued on as though it hadn't occurred to him that they were potentially trespassing. Huge glass doors greeted them at the lobby, and as they completely bypassed the leery receptionist who eyed them warily, she did a fast math on the duration it would take before they were caught.

"Stop that," he chided quietly.

"Stop what?"

"Could you look any more suspicious?" he muttered under his breath. "We're not going to rob anything, so just relax, alright?"

When they entered the elevator, he punched the button up to the last floor—twenty-fifth to be precise—and the second the door slid open, he had taken off down a row of corridors towards the emergency exit, where a set of stairs had led them to the rooftop. In the still of the late evening, they were overseeing the city. Lights, cars and people; they were but minute details in the spread of houses and roads—something they never got to see in the constraints of her fire escape.

"Oh, my God. How—"

"Well, I don't recall ever taking you out on a proper date before, and—"

It was cheesy, and corny, and every bit a clichéd chick flick, but his sweet attempt at normalcy was a shining beacon in the darkness of her life, and then he had dropped everything when she swooped in to capture his lips between her own. A burning fervor—needy desperation—radiated in their kisses, his fingers entangling in her hair as she clung onto his clothes, determined to devour as much of him as possible.

Vaguely, she heard the soft thump of his jacket hitting the ground, and then the quick work of his fly unzipping. Her skirt had been hiked up around her hips some time during the groping and the groaning, her knickers roughly shoved aside, and with one smooth stroke, he filled her to the hilt.

"What about dinner?" she gasped.

"It can wait."

* * *

Security found them mere seconds after they had righted their clothes, tersely escorting them out of the premise with a stern warning about public decency and raging hormones, and as they made their way back to her apartment—food and beer still untouched—she couldn't stop giggling like a giddy five-year-old.

* * *

"You're late!"

His voice thundered through the apartment, puncturing pockets of silence that hung in the air, and before she could open her mouth to state her case, he had marched up to her, footsteps heavy and purposeful, and had pinned her against the door. Her head made a hard impact against the wooden panel, her teeth clicking together as she swallowed a wince that threatened to escape her throat. He was filthy—unshaven and mad—and breathing against her face.

"You took the ring, didn't you?" he roared, slamming his fist against the drywall by the side of her head. "Didn't you?"

Her speech—when she found it—were barely whispered words.

**And I crash and I break down  
****Your words in my head, knives in my heart  
****You build me up and then I fall apart**

"Dad, I didn't take it."

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he boomed, all hell breaking loose. "You took her ring, and you fucking pawned it away, didn't you?"

"Dad, I didn't—"

He grabbed onto a handful of her hair.

She stifled a cry when he gave a sharp tug.

"Dad, please," she pleaded; eyes stinging from unshed tears as he jerked on her scalp. "I swear, I didn't take it, please."

He dragged her down onto the couch.

"You ungrateful piece of shit."

**'Cause I'm only human**

"Dad, I swear—"

She heard the deafening crack, felt the numbness where his palm met her cheek.

"Don't you fucking dare call me that!"

* * *

She sat on the floor with her back against the edge of her bed, a cigarette between her digits as she stared blankly out of the window. It was quiet again. Her father had left the apartment in a boiling fit after abandoning her in the middle of the kitchenette with fresh shambles to straighten out.

**I can do it**

Expelling a whiff of smoke, she tenderly ran her tongue over the scab at her corner of her lip. It sent a shocking reminder of what her old man had done in his blind fury—to lay a hand on her that way when he once swore to always protect her—and realized that she had ran out of tears to cry.

The journal would be her companion.

Stamping out her stick, Quinn flipped to a blank page.

She didn't pause, nor did she hesitate; she just wrote.

And it was brilliantly fantastic.

Every scroll, every stroke of the pen on paper was flawless, and in that small reprieve, her broken heart swelled with something akin to a flutter in her stomach. The freedom her words represented gave her liberty over herself. It was disconcerting at first as uncertainty crept in, but as her prose grew more fluid and each chip of the metaphoric wall toppled into dust, she finally allowed herself the luxury of relief.

**I can do it**

The colors slowly faded in, eating the shades of gray alive.

And then she was flying again; soaring across Neverland.

Some place distant; unreachable.

Somewhere only they knew.

Some place just for them.

"Just me and you."

* * *

Daylight barely broke. One minute she was snuggled tight under the duvet and the next she was hauled out of bed and dragged out of her room by the back of her neck. She hit the hardwood floor, the impact to her tailbone rippling up her spine, jolting her fully awake to comprehend the escalating situation.

"Dad?" she moaned, gripping onto his wrist to ease the soreness from before. "Dad, stop, please. It hurts—"

"Shut the fuck up, Quinn," he spat out, tossing her away like a piece of trash. She slid across the parquet and smacked straight into the side of the sofa. Hazily, she was aware of the strewn of beer bottles by her feet, and an icy chill settled at the bottom of her core.

She knew all too well what was coming.

"Dad, please—"

"I said shut up!" he bellowed, snatching the nearest empty glass and pitching it at the furthest wall where it smashed to pieces. "Do you have any idea, any fucking idea what you have done?"

"I just—dad, I just woke up—"

"Don't fucking talk back to me," he snapped, dropping to his knees next to her. "You don't know what I go through every fucking day, waking up to this God-forsaken hell pit and looking at your face and seeing her, only to realize that she's gone. It drives me absolutely nuts, and I can't—"

He choked on the rest of his sentence, glancing away to hide the vulnerability reflected in his eyes, and in that short moment, she felt for him—for his lonely dad—and her fingers itched to reach out to him, to console him.

**Just a little human**

"Dad…"

She didn't see his fist coming.

* * *

**I can take so much  
****'Til I've had enough**

It could've been minutes or hours, but all she heard was his voice—gruff and deep, and scratchy with a slight Southern twang—and she knew she was safe. She came around to him stroking down the line of her jaw, humming a tune that she had heard way too many times.

"Sam?"

"I'm right here," he whispered in her ear.

"Sam, we need to get out of here," she pleaded. "I can't—"

"Hey," he gently cut in, drawing circles against her cheek. "Don't worry about it. I'm right here."

She curled into his frame, shielded in his cocoon. "He'll do it again, Sam."

He stiffened, his muscles tensed. "I won't let him."

"You won't be here."

His chest expanded as he exhaled a slow breath. The ticking of the clock on the wall was too loud, then, the silence engulfing the room. Tentatively, he placed a kiss to the crown of her head.

"Tomorrow," he promised. "There's something I need to do first, and then I swear, we'll leave this place."

"Okay."

* * *

**A/N:** OMG, wasn't that just depressing as hell? It's probably why it took me so long to write and update, because each time I write a section, I need to walk away and revisit it a few days later because it's just so dark and there are day where I wonder if I'd just killed myself by starting this story, but I like investing myself with difficult issues, and putting characters in real-life situations, so I hope this update doesn't bum people too much.

**Agronderwood:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and even though you didn't quite understand the story—it is quite out there, isn't it?—I'm glad that you liked how different the story is! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**OhHeyAl:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a wonderful review! I really appreciate it! I'm glad that you liked the steamy parts, especially since they pose as a breather from the more serious issues in the story :) Yeah, I mean, this story isn't pretty, and I've established that in the first part. Everything is dark, and there are struggles and issues, and it's just ugly, but sometimes the world is ugly. Besides, now that Sam and Quinn have a reason to leave, they're about to embark in a crazy journey ahead! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! You've never failed to leave lovely comments, and I always look forward to hearing from you :) I'm glad you liked the part with Christopher Hudson, and yeah, Quinn has a tough life. They all have a tough life, in fact, and the only good thing to ever to happen in Sam and Quinn's lives is each other. Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Ashley:** Hello there! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and leaving three wonderful reviews! I really appreciate it! Awwww…thank you for the lovely compliment! I'm really flattered! I'm glad you liked the story, considering how dark and ugly the issues are. It just gets uglier in this update, but like what Skylar Grey says, 'it's always darkest before the dawn', so that would stick throughout the next update. Sam and Quinn are around 18/19, already out of high school. Hope this update sees you well! Cheers!

**Dosqueen67:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and seriously, don't worry about not reviewing sooner. I'm glad that you've enjoyed the story thus far, you know, considering it's not all pretty and colorful rainbows. I'm flattered by your sweet compliments, truly! I always try to upgrade my writing capabilities, explore new ways of expressing different emotions and scenarios. I hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!


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